


The Holiday Season

by out_there



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-18
Updated: 2006-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-13 09:24:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/135716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John suffers a series of Christmas misadventures (and he's sure Rodney's to blame).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Holiday Season

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://mecurtin.livejournal.com/profile)[**mecurtin**](http://mecurtin.livejournal.com/) for betaing.

John is in Hell. The worst part, he thinks, is that nobody warned him. Oh, sure, he remembers vague stories of brimstone and sulfur, eternal burning and the constant wail of pain, but that's a kids' party compared to this: being trapped in Atlantis' kitchens with Rodney McKay.

John should have known that something was up from the careful way Elizabeth smiled when she suggested this. Because, yes, all the teams are grounded over the holiday season and, yes, the upcoming Christmas/Kwanzaa/Hanukkah/Summer Solstice party (and he is never going to get used to the city being in the wrong hemisphere: Christmas should be *cold*) means a lot of extra cooking. All able-bodies should help. But no one mentioned McKay, or the rants on convection fans, or the rapturous expression as he melts chocolate (actual cooking chocolate, especially delivered by the Daedalus).

John's survived Afghanistan and Antarctica. He's served in wars; he's shot life-sucking aliens; he's nearly blown himself up -- a few times -- with nuclear bombs. He isn't the type to surrender and he doesn't break easily.

But, *God*, the finger-licking is getting to him.

It's all Corporal McKenzie's fault. As head Cook, the kitchen is his domain, and after the third time Rodney had complained about the inaccuracies of measurements, the Alpha Team got dishwashing duty. John might technically be the superior officer, but he knows from experience you don't argue with the cook. If you do, you'll spend the week missing all the good stuff in the mess.

Somehow while he, Ronon and Teyla started scrubbing cake pans and drying dishes, Rodney claimed the all-important job of licking the bowl. Which he does by running his fingers along the inside of the bowl, and then sucking the uncooked cake-mix from his hands with the type of wet moans that should only be heard when naked.

This is why John's in Hell: he's trapped in a room with two dozen personnel with wrinkled, pruned hands and a hard-on that just won't quit. At least he's the one washing, so he has a reason to stand close to the counter and keep his back to everyone else.

The worst part about it is that it shouldn't be sexy. Rodney isn't doing isn't trying to tease, isn't pushing one finger slowly into his mouth and making eyes at John. Oh, no. Rodney's focused on the cake mixture, guzzling it down at a speed that should be disturbing, and not disturbingly hot.

A few feet to John's right, Rodney starts on a new bowl, pushing the last one -- that is now very empty -- into the sink.

"Mmmm," Rodney says, "*butterscotch*."

Then he does what John's trying to ignore, what John can't help watching in his peripheral vision: he takes three fingers and slides them along the bowl, scooping up the creamy mixture. Shoving the three fingers into his mouth, past the first and second knuckle, Rodney makes another of those moans as he pulls his hand back. He licks at the bottom of his fingers, sucking the skin in case he's missed something, and then his hand is moving back to the bowl, and the whole damning cycle starts again.

John doesn't want to notice the stretch of Rodney's lips, the way Rodney's eyes close every time he sucks, the flash of red tongue against Rodney's hand. He's trapped here until they finish the dishes and mixing bowls spread across the counter, and he doesn't want to spend the next hour (at his best, and most optimistic, guess) watching Rodney fellate his own fingers to a porn soundscape.

He can *hear* the bow-chicka-bow music that should be playing.

It's when Rodney makes a slurping sound, a sound that makes John think of Rodney going down on him -- that wicked mouth around his cock, fingers holding back his hips -- John cracks. Specifically, he cracks a glass bowl against the edge of the sink and a sliver of glass bites into his palm. He drops it with a hiss and Rodney's amateur porn hour is suddenly the last thing on his mind.

Teyla pins him with a glance. "I think you should see Doctor Beckett about that."

"Nah, I'm good," John says and then belated realizes that it hurts. A lot. John doesn't need to look behind him to know Rodney's there, hovering over his shoulder, irritated and slightly concerned.

Teyla notices -- John really doesn't want to think about how much she notices -- and has a hand at his elbow, pulling him away from the sink. "I am sure Rodney can finish washing the bowls."

Rodney pulls a face. He wants to object, but John cuts him off before the diatribe can start. "Thanks, McKay." Then he follows Teyla to the infirmary and ignores Rodney's demands to know the contents of the dish-washing liquid.

***

In times of celebration, Military Leader apparently means 'he who kills the wild turkeys'. This was not in the job description.

Again, it's all McKay's fault.

While John was getting his hand sterilized and checked for glass slivers, Rodney managed to stub his toe, splatter custard across the floor, get the Alpha Team permanently banned from the kitchens and trip two cooks (not necessarily in that order). Then Teyla had described tegarek birds to Elizabeth, and Ronon grinned and offered to hunt them, and somehow the entire team's been wrangled into helping.

MX-5846 is dark and shadowed, covered with a lush forest that's reminding John uncomfortably of watching 'Lord of The Flies' as a child. He's pretty sure this isn't going to go well, but that could be caused by Ronon's surprisingly happy smile as he leads the way.

"So," John says to Teyla, because conversation is better than this creepy darkness, "the tegarek birds. What are they like?"

"They have brown feathers, thin necks and a red flap of skin that hangs from their beaks. They fly rarely and have a distinctive call, which is where their name comes from. Tega-tega-tega-tega," Teyla calls, the sounds soft and rounded in her mouth. To John, it sounds like the gobble-gobble-gobble of a turkey. "They are considered a delicacy as the meat is very rich."

"I'd better not be allergic," Rodney says, PDA in hand. He didn't want to be here, but John's making sure the Alpha Team doesn't get banned from anything else. "I bet you I am. I bet we spend all this time, trudging through forests, doing something as utterly primitive as *hunting*, and I--"

There's a noise to the left (leaves rustling loudly) and John freezes, slapping a hand over Rodney's mouth and gesturing at Teyla. The rustles get louder, then a bird steps out of the foliage.

John looks up. And up. There's an eight foot tall turkey standing in front of him. "This is a tegarek?"

"It is young," Teyla says softly, stick in hand, "not fully grown."

Turning his head, John stares at her. "You mean they grow bigger than this?"

It's a stupid mistake. He's had years of combat training and he knows not to look away from the threat, but on the other hand, it's a *turkey*. An eight foot tall turkey that uses John's moment of distraction to peck the ground and fasten it's beak around John's calf. It lifts him up and shakes him. John raises his arms, protecting his head from hitting the ground, which is how he loses the P-90. He watches the gun clatter to the ground as the bird stands up to its full height, heaving John two foot off the ground.

"Guys, a little help here!" he hisses at Teyla, who's doing a great impersonation of a statue. He hopes that Ronon hears too, but from his upside-down vantage point, John can't even see him.

Rodney, at least, reacts and pulls the Beretta out of his thigh holster. As Teyla says, "We do not wish to startle--" Rodney fires and John's world becomes a blur of greenery and the occasional stick hitting his torso. The bird is running really fast and the blood's pooling in John's head and the grip on his leg has tightened to a painful degree, and he's being held upside down by a giant turkey and can't do anything about it.

It's the type of situation that encourages philosophizing. John currently believes that going fast is good, flying is even better and knowing Rodney McKay is Hell.

He tells the bird that, and the bird gambols to a stop. It turns its head quickly, swinging John's body one way and then the other and then stops, with its head tilted. As a kid, John had watched chickens do that (the head tilt and freeze thing) and had wondered what they were listening to. Now he wonders if the worms were insulting them.

"Sheppard?" Ronon's voice rumbles through his earpiece.

"I've been taken hostage by Big Bird."

"Good. Keep distracting it."

"Good?" John asks the bird, and gets swung back and forth again. When the world stops swaying, John crosses his arms and continues. "It's not good. I'm the team leader. I'm not supposed to be the *distraction*. I shouldn't have to be bait. I can't believe--"

There's a shnickt sound and then John's dropped. He lands on his back (on sticks and rocks and other sharp, painful things) and he'll have a mottled collection of bruises tomorrow, but it could have been worse. He could have landed on his head.

Then it gets worse: six foot of decapitated turkey lands on him.

***

Enough is enough. John isn't sure if it's Christmas or the Pegasus galaxy that's out to get him, but one can be ignored and the other can be avoided. Under the guise of Christmas, off-world missions are cancelled. And the excuse of catching up on paperwork gives John a way to avoid any Christmas preparations.

Until Dr Zelenka asks him to help with the Christmas lights in the mess (not actual Christmas lights, but they're programming the room to glow in tiny flashes of color).

"All you have to do," Zelenka says, pushing his glasses up, "is to test them and make sure they work. I have no gene and Rodney is--" A hand wave and a word in Czech that can't be complimentary.

"Annoying everyone he's ever met?"

"While claiming he is too busy to be disturbed, yes."

John laughs, and can't help but feel a little bit of sympathy for the guy. (Zelenka, not Rodney.) It's hard enough dealing with Rodney on missions. Trying to deal with him as your *superior* is too cruel for words.

Nodding, John follows Zelenka to the mess. "What do you need me to do?"

Zelenka points to the ceiling, where the edges are lined with flickering lights of green-gold-red-blue. "We cannot get the middle section to work. It is a parallel circuit and the transformers have been adjusted twice, and we've even tried bypassing them."

"Okay," John says slowly. If he cared about Christmas (which he definitely doesn't, not this year), he'd put the effort into following Zelenka's explanation and pointing hands. When he's really bored, the circuitry stuff is almost interesting.

Zelenka must be able to read that in his expression, because he stops explaining and points at the darkened center of the ceiling. "Try to turn it on."

"That's it?" John asks, and Zelenka nods, scruffy hair flying everywhere. John wills the ceiling to light up. Nothing happens. "No luck."

Scratching his head, Zelenka shrugs. "Try going section by section. It's a grid, it should all light up. Perhaps we can narrow the possibilities and find which section is not working."

"Find the one blown light bulb that's stopping the circuit," John says, remember trawling through the mess of wiring with his grandmother, each of them starting at one end and checking each bulb one at a time. At least this is easier.

He turns all of the lights off, and then starts at the left, willing a small square to light up in red. Then lighting the next square in blue and the next in green. He works from left to right (turning each square a different color) and on the thirty-fourth square, it stops working. John skips over it, and moves to the next one, but none of the others will light up either.

Beside him, Zelenka jumps. McKay's yelling into his earpiece loud enough that *John* can hear it. "Radek, what the hell are you doing? The power to the labs just disappeared and there's a huge drain in the central section. Don't tell me you started playing around with the mess lights without separating the conductors."

"Of course I separated them, Rodney. It was the first thing I did, and then I--" Zelenka grimaces and drops his head. "And then I reconnected them to adjust the transformers. It will be fixed within a few minutes."

Zelenka turns a baleful expression on him, like a kicked sheepdog. "Colonel, please, would you help me?"

John has to nod and agree.

Zelenka pries open two panels on the wall about a yard apart from each other. "They are the main control for this room," Zelenka explains, "but I cannot do both at once. I need you to remove the third and fourth crystal and switch them. I will tell you when to put them back in. Remove them now, Colonel."

John pulls them out, and switches them in his hand until he's holding the third one in his right hand and the fourth one in his left. Then he does what he usually does around the science staff: stands back and waits to be told what to do.

Zelenka is pulling out crystals and touching them with the pointed end of a fine pair of tweezers, physically pulling the tiny slivers of silver into new circuits. He does this to five crystals, muttering under his breath. McKay must be berating him, because every so often he'll say, "Yes, yes, Rodney, I am doing that now," and "A few minutes, Rodney, a few minutes."

The sixth crystal is pushed into place and Zelenka says, "Now, Colonel. The third crystal."

John takes the third crystal, in his right hand, and pushes it into the fourth slot. His skin tingles, crawling, and his muscles clench and hurt, and he realizes he's being *electrocuted* -- by Christmas lights! -- the same time he realizes he can't open his hand and let go. His veins feel like they're on fire, heat shooting up under his skin and radiating from his wrist and elbow.

Radek thinks fast and tackles him.

They both land in a pile on the floor: John on his bruise-covered back, with Zelenka's elbows forming new bruises on his ribcage. There's a residual burning sensation up his arm, and his fingers feel char grilled, but there's no actual burns. John lies there, wondering what happened to the crystals (and if they're salvageable) while Zelenka stares at him with wide, panicked eyes and radios Carson. "I'm sorry, Colonel, I meant the third slot, not the third crystal--"

"What the hell happened?" Rodney squawks over an open channel. "Zelenka, this is not fixing it! I mean, honestly, that was a very simple mistake to make and it was even simpler to fix so there is no reason why I'm still sitting here in the dark."

Zelenka sits up, says "Shut up, McKay," and pulls the earpiece off John's head, silencing Rodney's barrage of complaints. Which makes Zelenka John's new favorite person.

Also, the room feels kind of fuzzy and he might be going into shock. "I'm starting to really hate Christmas." John sighs, watching the darkened ceiling. "And I'm not too fond of Rodney either."

***

Carson lets him go after a few hours observation (mild shock, mild concussion from hitting the floor, but no real damage) and says, "John, I'm amazed that you didn't kill yourself. There's a lot of voltage going through those circuits. You've got the Devil's own luck."

If that means John's cursed by evil forces, he completely agrees.

The botany department finds a distant cousin of mistletoe and sprigs of it become decorations, courtesy of Parrish and Lorne. John watches them tie, tack and occasionally duct-tape the cheery red plants along the residential hallways. After half an hour, he helps in the safest way he can think of: passing the plants up to them.

He's completely not surprised when he wakes up the next morning with his hands swollen and red, and hives breaking out along his arms and legs. Carson gives John two shots of anti-histamine (nothing says happy holidays like big needles) and John orders Lorne to take it all down before someone has a serious allergic reaction to it.

It's the first Christmas-related mishap that wasn't caused by McKay, which cheers John for no good reason.

By lunchtime, his hands are back to normal, so John eats in the mess. If he concentrates, he can make the lights flash to the tune of "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer" (Wham's "Last Christmas" is a little harder). Slowly, the rest of the Alpha Team join him. Ronon and Teyla are planning to take the rest of the Athosians tegarek-hunting. John okays it as long as he doesn't have to fly the jumper, go to the planet, or deal with the birds.

Rodney is complaining about the lack of mistletoe in the hallways.

"You liked the mistletoe?" John asks, pushing mashed potatoes around his plate.

"It's a very festive plant. Normally, I'm allergic so I've never been able to do that whole kissing under the mistletoe tradition. But Parrish found that new breed. No allergic reaction whatsoever." Rodney beams like it was a personal accomplishment. Maybe -- for him -- it was. "I was looking forward to cashing in on those holiday kisses."

John blinks, and the other shoe drops. "They brought it to you for testing? Shouldn't they have got it approved by Carson, first?"

"Come on. If anyone's going to be allergic to anything, it's going to be me. I'm the most allergy-prone person on Atlantis," Rodney says proudly.

"I should have known you'd be behind it," John mutters under his breath as he stands up.

***

John has control over the duty roster. Technically speaking, at least. He normally exercises that control by picking the away missions that look interesting (specifically: unusual power readings, some form of civilization and/or comfortable temperatures) and getting Lorne to assign the rest. Tonight he's exercised his power and claimed the night patrol.

In his BDUs, armed with his P-90 and Beretta, John's taking on Christmas Night and he intends to win. He's stalking across catwalks and around corners, careful of his footing. He's keeping one hand on a gun at all times. He's aware and alert, listening carefully -- ignoring the thumping bass from the party, which can be heard all the way from the mess hall -- and waiting for the first sign of holiday-themed horror.

That first sign turns out to be Rodney McKay, grinning widely and holding up two cups. One cup is empty and the other is full of magenta liquid.

John only dithers for a split second before lowering the P-90. "Rodney?"

"I brought you fruit punch." Rodney uses the empty cup to point to the full one. It's the type of hand-gesture that only McKay could make understandable. "I've been told it's five percent pure -- non-citrus -- fruit. I can only assume the other 95% is pure alcohol because this stuff packs a punch. Ignore the unintentional pun."

John ignores the obnoxiously bright drink that's held out to him. "I'm on duty." He wants McKay out of here; the quicker, the better. Just having him in the same room is hugely increasing the chance of something terrible happening.

"Oh, please, stop being such a, a, a-- party pooper!" John blinks at Rodney's choice of insult, then he adds the empty glass to the bright grin and realizes Rodney's not quite sober. "The internal scans are all turned on, there are no immediate threats and everyone else is enjoying Christmas and having a good time. You are the only person, in all of Atlantis, who's working right now. The sole sad, lonely soldier walking around and around, being a martyr for his service."

Rodney McKay was accusing him of working too much. John thinks that through again: *Rodney McKay* was accusing *him* of working *too much*. The guy who habitually lives on four hours sleep and twelve cups of coffee -- who can find the rain cloud behind any silver lining -- thinks John's a spoil-sport, a killjoy, a pooper of parties.

Grabbing the glass, John swallows it down in one go. It heats the back of his throat and makes his eyes water. "You weren't kidding about the alcohol content."

"After the second glass, you can't taste anything," Rodney says with a casual wave. Then he makes a circle with his fingers. "And they have these little round hors d'oeuvre things that you have to try. And tegarek canapés. You're missing out on some great stuff."

***

The glare hits before he even opens his eyes. It shouldn't be possible, but it is.

Before John opens his eyes, he knows the room is too bright, his brain is too big for his skull, and last night's punch was far too strong. He tries to remember the party -- it's something he can do with his eyes shut -- but it's a blur of loud music and laughter. Also, falling flat on his back in the middle of the mess hall. Before everyone on Atlantis.

And giggling because he could still make the ceiling lights twinkle.

He's never going to live that down.

"So McKay's fault," John grumbles, his throat far too dry. He should have followed his gut instinct: shot him before he had a chance to goad John into coming to the party. It could have been a nice, neat shot -- through the thigh or shoulder -- with almost no permanent damage.

Then something -- correction: someone -- moves beside him and John realizes that somewhere, the spirit of Christmas is pointing and laughing at him. John cracks one eye open to look. It's far worse than he thought.

It's Rodney.

"Isn't it a bit early to assign post-coital blame?" Rodney stretches his arms above his head and John can see pillow creases on his cheek and red-purple hickies on his -- bare, so very bare -- shoulders. "There are no meetings today so I think this entire conversation can wait until I've had a few more hours sleep or at least three pots of coffee."

That's fine by John. He's perfectly happy to lie here with his eyes shut and ignore the situation completely. Then he's going to have strong words with whoever made the punch. As soon as his head stops throbbing.

"And," Rodney says, flopping a heavy arm across John's chest, "these are yours."

John doesn't want to open his eyes. He honestly doesn't want to know. There's only so much he can deal with while hung-over.

But forewarned is forearmed and when dealing with Rodney McKay, John needs all the advantages he can get. He can't afford ignorance. So he opens his eyes. Then he blinks.

"Why are my dog tags around your wrist?" The silver chain is looped three times around Rodney's wrist, the metal rectangles drooping towards the mattress.

Rodney sighs. "If you don't remember, I'm not explaining."

"You remember last night?"

"Some of it. Most of it's hazy. Like badly lit soft-porn."

John ignores that last comment -- and how it makes this whole situation just a touch worse -- and trudges on, trying to fill in the blanks. "How did we end up in bed together?"

"That's completely your fault. I had a brilliant idea -- which, yes, I've now forgotten. Thank you so much for stopping me from writing that down. You must be so thrilled at freezing the forward momentum of science." Rodney taps him on the shoulder, too light to hurt at all. "But, yes, I had a great idea and wanted to go to the labs, but you used your love of movies featuring animatronic dinosaurs to distract me. You started arguing that chaos theory meant the universe was too inherently complex to be unified under any one theory, and that I'd be wasting my potential life experiences if I left the party to work on it."

John took a mental memo: when hung-over, avoid Rodney. He uses far too many words. "And that led to us sleeping together?"

"You demonstrated my 'potential life experiences'," Rodney says, using air-quotes -- actual air-quotes, fingers spitefully clawing the air -- and making the dog tags jingle like vicious tiny bells, "by kissing me. So, yes, all your fault."

"I kissed you. I didn't knock you out and drag you back to my room."

"Not as such," Rodney acknowledges with a wave of his hand. "But you were drunk and very insistent. Also, you were shirtless."

"Why was I--" John has a flash of pulling his shirt over his head and throwing it at Kate. "Oh, god."

"It had something to do with limbo."

"In the religious sense?" John asks, because he's pretty sure he knows the definition of Hell. It's knowing Rodney McKay. John's a responsible military leader who can command respect and save lives; because of McKay, he's going to be a laughing-stock for months.

"In the party game sense. I think you were trying to explain it to Teyla."

John groans. It's like the holiday season decided to splash out with something really, really big to end John's misery. This is so much worse than being attacked by giant turkeys.

"Don't tell me this is-- Oh, please, Colonel." Rodney stares at him. Apparently, at least inside Rodney's head, that's supposed to make sense to John. "It's the three-strike rule."

"You're using sports metaphors?" Yet another sign that sometime between agreeing to come to another galaxy and being attacked by life-sucking aliens, John's life had taken a turn for the surreal.

"Three-strike rule. You're allowed three fumblings with someone of your own gender before you get sent to the bench to reassess your team loyalties."

John hid his face in his hands. He's getting lectures on sexual orientation from Rodney McKay. He can't even describe how wrong that is. When he glances up, Rodney's still there. "Ever heard of the phrase: 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell'?"

Rodney snorts. "Ever heard of the phrase: 'You, your ridiculously macho military, and the small-minded rules that enforce said stupid machismo can bite me'?"

"Can't say that I have." Now that the pounding of his temples has dulled, John looks around the room. Guitar, surfboard, Johnny Cash staring down disapprovingly. Yep, it's his room. So he has the right to kick Rodney out of it. "Don't you have somewhere else to be? Someone else to torture?"

Ignoring the huffs and hmmms, John closes his eyes and waits for Rodney to leave. There's a lot of shuffling, Rodney muttering at a volume meant to be overheard -- about stupid military regulations, about lack of courtesy, about his missing socks -- and the clink of dog tags dropped on his desk.

Then, finally, John's blissfully alone.

***

"Elizabeth." John smiles, waits for her to look up, and then closes her office door behind him. Elizabeth's eyes narrow, her expression shifting from surprised, to wary, to curious in the time it takes John to sit down. "I wanted to talk to you."

She closes the laptop in one smooth motion. "About what?"

"About McKay." John tilts his head a little, smiles a little brighter and then realizes that's the wrong move. Elizabeth's face goes blank. She settles her hands on the desk and leans forward, knowing him well enough to see she's being charmed. "And Zelenka."

"Carson says it's a bad strain. He should be walking again within a week or so." She barely flushes. The story -- according to the local grapevine -- is that they were both drunk after the party, walking through the control room (there are mentions of them playing Hide and Seek, but John's quieted those rumors) and Zelenka tripped on the stairs. "What is this about?"

"No disrespect meant, but I'm a little concerned at leaving him in charge of the science department while he's in pain. Even the brightest person can make mistakes when distracted. And in this city, little mistakes have a way of becoming huge problems very quickly."

A quick nod means she's willing to hear more. "And your suggestion?"

"I think Rodney should be grounded," John says, glancing off to the side. He doesn't want to give Elizabeth the impression that he's eager to get Rodney off his team for the next two weeks. He isn't eager: he's hopeful. "It would be on a purely temporary basis. At the moment, I'm not comfortable with the idea that something could go wrong here and we might be out of contact."

"You're asking for permission to kick Rodney off your team?" Elizabeth's tone is careful and her mouth only twitches slightly, so it takes John a moment to realize he's screwed. "Colonel, I think you should discuss your concerns with Rodney himself."

She's trying not to laugh.

This is the moment when John wishes the security cameras hadn't been disabled for the party. He's never been a subtle drunk, especially when flirting, and he has no idea who knows what. Then again, if they had security tape, he wouldn't need it; *everyone* would know eventually.

John's faced worse odds than this. There's always a chance of miracle. "And if he agrees it's a good idea?"

"If he agrees--" Elizabeth can't stop grinning, so, yeah. They both know John's totally screwed. "Then come and talk to me."

***

John resolves to talk to McKay immediately.

It's fifteen minutes before lunch -- but today they're getting meatloaf -- so Rodney's already in the mess, tucking into a huge serving.

John walks up, determined to face this head on, sees the shadow of a hickey on Rodney's neck, and retreats in the least graceful way possible. It involves tripping over two chairs and falling against Teyla.

Obviously Rodney's fault.

***

John tries again later. Well, he thinks about it. At least opens the door and walks halfway to the labs before deciding that the weapon inventory really should be double-checked.

He marks off the crates of ammo and tests the sightings of the P-90s with a few quick shots. He even opens the AK-47s and M-15s -- the ones they're not technically supposed to have, the ones that Caldwell provided as general Christmas present to the military contingent -- and the S-12's and B-300's that they were officially assigned.

He's very, very tempted to try out the B-300 because rocket launchers are always cool, but he can't think of a reasonably safe way to do it. And considering his general luck at the moment, it's probably not the best idea.

But -- oh -- he's so tempted.

Instead, he closes the crates with the smallest of wistful sighs, and decides to head over to the science labs. He gets to the right corridor, the one where you can hear arguing in three different languages, and walks straight past the doorway. It's not being cowardly. He'd already arranged to spar with Teyla this afternoon: it would be rude to stand her up just to have a quick conversation with McKay.

***

Over the rest of the day, John learns some things.

He's a coward. He's a total, utter, complete coward. He is weak, craven, spineless. All he has to do is go up to McKay, share his concerns about Zelenka, throw in a bit of flattery and challenge McKay's ego. That's all he has to do to get a well-earned reprieve.

But time after time, John's thought it through; he's not sure he can say that without admitting other things. He's not sure he can open his mouth in front of Rodney without saying other things, like "Your three-strike rule is stupid, I'd broken it by the time I was seventeen," and "Does it count as if it's multiple encounters with the same person? It shouldn't count. Then you could keep sleeping with me."

Which is pathetic enough to make John wince. The entire purpose of getting Rodney off the team was to avoid making an idiot of himself. If he's going to lose his dignity, avoidance is a much better approach. (But cowardly. So cowardly.)

That's the second thing John learns. If you try to avoid McKay, it's actually very easy. Despite all the time John spends hanging around the labs and chatting with the science team about the latest discoveries, he's not actually needed there. It's very easy to fill in his time with training and general military duties, and eat dinner after McKay's left.

John thought it would be harder. The city has always felt like Rodney's, always made him think of Rodney's waving hands and quick mind, his sharp questions and surprisingly earnest joy. It's become routine to stop in at the labs, to spend a few hours each day standing in the background, talking with the other scientist and watching Rodney work. Even on the busiest, most panicked days, they still spend hours together. For no actual reason.

In retrospect, John feels pathetic and obvious. Hopefully, the scientists think he's an extremely curious military leader, instead of a thirteen year old with a crush.

The third thing John learns is that drunken flashbacks *suck*. When he's sweating and panting, running alongside Ronon, he doesn't need to trip over his own feet, overcome by the sudden sense-memory of Rodney's teeth biting into his shoulder, of rubbing up against Rodney's thigh and trying to pull down their pants, and hearing himself urge, "Now. Please. God. Rodney," like a litany.

When he's sparring with Teyla, he needs to keep his attention on the sticks, on the restrained shifts of her shoulders, on defending the next attack. He doesn't need to think about Rodney, or naked skin, or the cotton slide of sheets beneath his knees. John's not at all surprised to find himself suddenly disarmed, with one arm twisted high up his back.

There are times he wishes he'd never met Rodney McKay. Lately, those times are becoming more and more common.

***

John wants to say that the last person he'd expect to disturb his sleep at three in the morning is Rodney McKay, but he'd be lying. He's actually grown used to the PA system in his room (and only his room, because Rodney's somehow developed a direct line from his headset to John's room) waking him up with Rodney's angry-panicked demands of, "You'd better get down to Lab 4 because if I die alone and all my research is lost, the entire science team will mourn my passing and extract vengeance from you, Colonel!"

Personally, John thinks that at least half of the science team would thank him, but that's beside the point. The point is that he's so used to McKay's voice waking him up that he's half-dressed and strapping on his holster before he looks up and sees Rodney standing in his doorway.

"Put the gun away, Colonel," Rodney says with exasperation, and then he switches to anger the moment John drops the Beretta to the desk. At least the door closes before he starts. "I cannot believe you! I absolutely cannot believe you."

"I'm incredible, huh?" It's a weak pun, but John's wearing pants without a shirt, and boots without socks, and he should be sleeping right now. He doesn't care if he lacks his usual charm.

"You are, in the most archaic sense of the word. I cannot believe that you'd go to Elizabeth to kick me off the team!"

John grimaces. "It was a brief discuss--"

"Shut up. I'm complaining here. I've been stewing on this all night and messing up calculations -- there's an entire simulation I'm going to have to run again because of you, that is hours of my life that I've wasted -- and now I'm venting, so you can shut up and listen." McKay finally pauses for breath, but only for a microsecond. "Then you can apologize. Understood?"

"Sir, yes, sir," John replies as drolly as he can. He collapses back onto the bed and starts undoing his boots.

"This is ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous. You're completely over-reacting. There's only supposed to be one over-emotional panic-stricken person per team and that position is filled, mister. I don't care if they say you have to watch the quiet ones -- apparently, it's always the ones you don't expect -- because this is over the top. Beyond belief." Rodney starts pacing, five steps each direction, hands conducting an imaginary orchestra. "I don't care how personally threatened you feel because it was one night, one very drunken night -- when you were *very* willing, let me point out -- and you don't get to kick me off the team."

"I haven't kicked you off the team, Rodney." John doesn't say 'only because I couldn't get Elizabeth to do it for me' because he understands risks, and that's just begging Rodney to convince the entire science team he's Satan Incarnate. Rodney would do it. He'd probably use diagrams and flow charts too.

From the expression on Rodney's face, those charts are already saved on his laptop. "No, you haven't, and you know why? Because I am the most experienced, most qualified and best suited to off world missions. You will not find anyone else in the entire science department who can work as well as I do under the most amazing pressures. I do a job and I do it well, and I've put actual work into it -- into learning how to shoot and getting used to running up mountains and trekking through jungles -- and you don't get to take that away from me because your masculine pride is feeling a teensy, tiny bit threatened."

This pause lasts more than two seconds, so John takes a gamble and speaks. "I don't feel threatened." He crosses his legs, tucking his bare feet under his knees and watches Rodney scowl, roll his eyes and then give him the most disbelieving expression he's seen since he told his dad the car was like that when he got home.

"Of course you're threatened. From the moment you remembered what we did, you wanted to forget it. You made that clear."

"Yeah, but not--"

"And I get it, really, I do. You've got to be working for one of the most heteronormative organizations in the world and that's not the type of atmosphere that encourages experimentation and acceptance, but you don't get to push me aside -- you don't get to screw with my job -- just because you feel that I took advantage of you." Rodney crosses his arms, pressing his hands flat against his ribs. The gesture seems more self-protective than angry. "You're not allowed to use your job to punish me for something utterly personal."

"Is this my turn to apologize?" John asks carefully, and Rodney nods. "First of all, I didn't actually kick you off the team. I discussed the idea with Elizabeth. There's a difference."

"You were going to."

"I was thinking about it. It's not the same thing." John takes a deep breath. "Secondly, your three-strike rule is stupid. You must know that."

"Hey--"

"Thirdly, it wasn't a punishment."

Rodney glares at him. "What would you call it if Elizabeth demoted *you* to an office and endless paperwork? It's not a trip to the day spa."

"It wasn't a punishment. It wasn't a straight guy lashing out." John looks down, presses his palms flat against his kneecaps. "I just… I needed some time. I wanted some time where I didn't have to spend hours with you every day."

"Time for what? Why?"

"Come on, Rodney." John presses his fingertips against his eyelids, but it doesn't really help. "Don't Ask, Don't Tell. This is the stuff you're not supposed to ask."

"What? Why? Why can't I-- Oh. *Oh.*"

That's the moment Rodney gets it, the moment Rodney reads between the lines of the John Sheppard who likes things that go fast, and the Lieutenant Colonel who likes flying. That's the precise moment John wishes, hopes, *prays* for the holiday season to hurt him in a purely physical way: opening up the floor beneath him; letting the roof collapse onto his head. There's a wide variety of painful disasters that would be a lot easier than this.

"Oh my god," Rodney says, sounding amazed and more than a little annoyed, "You're eight years old."

"Try adding about thirty years to that," John replies -- glancing up -- and isn't surprised when Rodney takes no notice of him.

"You're eight. You're trying to get my attention by pulling my pigtails and stealing my lunch. That is so pathetic." Rodney steps closer and John can't look away. "Also endearing, because it's *you*, but still. Pathetic."

"Excuse me?"

"Stand up." Rodney beckons with one hand and the other is set on his hip. It's a McKay pose of confidence. "I can't believe you didn't say something earlier. You couldn't have taken a moment -- sometime between pulling my clothes off and making my bones completely dissolve -- to mention you actually like me? This could have been so much quicker."

John's still blinking at the sudden shift from angry to excited when Rodney grabs his hands and pulls him -- stumbling -- to his feet. "Rodney," John says, because he has doubts and he knows protocol is there for a reason and this is breaking it in too many ways to count, "this--"

"No offense, John, but shut up. Once again, I am the only person in the room who grasps the entirety of the situation." Then Rodney kisses him hard, tongue pushing into his mouth, ignoring his surprise. Rodney's hands come up to his cheeks, holding him still as the kiss settles, gentles, becomes soft and good. It makes John want to drag Rodney to bed, strip him bare, and then do everything twice so he can remember it all.

John's eyes are closed and he's concentrating on the wet slide of Rodney's lips against his, on Rodney's thumb ghosting across his cheek. Then Rodney pulls back, saying, "So this is settled, right? We can get into bed and have sex now?"

Things can't be this easy. "Rodney--"

Rodney ducks his head and kisses the tendons of John's neck, teeth sharp and sure. "It makes sense," Rodney mumbles against his skin.

"That's supposed to convince me?"

"You like me. You genuinely -- sometimes for no earthly reason I can understand, because you've seen me be petty and cowardly and, even worse, utterly wrong -- you still like me. And you're attracted to me. Those two things don't intersect often enough in my life." Rodney proves his enthusiasm by kissing him again, shuffling closer until they're chest to chest.

"How flattering," John says between kisses, hands settling on Rodney's arms. "The only reason is because I like you and I'm *here*?"

"Yes, that's the only reason," Rodney replies sarcastically. "Please. You're gorgeous, you're brave, you're smart. And when you fly..."

"Mmmm?"

Rodney's hands are smoothing over his sides, resting on his hips. His thumbs are hooked under John's waistband, brushing across bare skin in a way that is far more obscene than it should be. "When you fly, you smile like the stars were created just for you, to make you happy. You make me want that. Make me wish the stars were made for you alone."

There's another long moment where he gets lost in Rodney's mouth, chasing the taste of stale coffee and peanut butter powerbars, trying to map Rodney's lips with his. There's a moment -- when Rodney pushes him down to the bed and pulls off his BDUs -- when John thinks this rates as his best Christmas ever.

By the looks of things, next year will be even better.


End file.
